Iron Roses
by sharingank
Summary: He doesn't like being a captain, but he does need sleep, and she's the only one who can help him...IsaneShuuhei oneshot. Possible manga spoilers. Rated M for mature themes.


Okay. Well. Was sitting at a shindig at the grandparents' place, and the idea for this crackfic smacked me upside the head with a sledgehammer. Thus, Isane/Shuuhei goodness emerges. I am becoming quite obsessive about this pairing, to tell the truth. XD I hope y'all enjoy!

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****Iron Roses**

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Hisagi Shuuhei is used to living a rough life. Prior to becoming a shinigami, he fought to survive day by day in the slum district, pillaging food from dumpsters, teaching himself the skills of a pickpocket, getting caught on one side or the other of fierce, age-old gang wars and walking away with his hide more or less intact.

Yet through it all, he kept a cool, level head, knowing that the future could have two outcomes: death, or advancement.

Hisagi was not afraid of dying then, and he is not afraid of dying now. Death is inevitable, so why fear it? He's still alive, isn't he?

"You should start thinking about a vice-captain, Hisagi-kun," Ukitake had urged him gently. "It's time."

Hisagi Shuuhei is perfectly capable of adapting to difficult situations, but he cannot seem to get around this one.

Being a captain just plain sucks.

Vice-captain…he _was_ a vice-captain not too long ago, and he probably would've remained a vice-captain—happily—if Tousen-taichou hadn't pledged his loyalties elsewhere right underneath his closest subordinate's nose.

And it _still _smarts. Of all people to notice something was amiss, it should have been Shuuhei. It should have, but it wasn't. For that failure alone, he's convinced he isn't qualified to be a commanding officer, despite the long list of individuals who would tell him to shut the hell up, thanks.

Such as it is, whether he likes it or not, the ninth division has passed into his hands, which means he's responsible for doing everything Tousen would've done were he here.

Part of him believes his captain isn't really gone. A small part, but nonetheless, it's enough to make him weary of recruiting a second. It's enough to make him drag his feet.

To be fair, reluctance isn't his only reason for stalling. He's been so damn busy the past few months that he hardly knows up from down anymore, let alone his own name. He never realized how much Tousen took on himself without enlisting any help, how much _crap_ he shielded his lieutenant and the rest of the division from.

Shuuhei can't decide if such 'generosity' is a blessing or a curse. Presently, he's leaning more toward a curse. He doesn't have the faintest idea what he's doing half the time, and it pisses him off. Racing around aimlessly like a headless chicken isn't _fun_. In the slightest.

Particularly when your sleeping habits are in the tank. He can't remember his last decent night's sleep because he _doesn't_ sleep at night. It's more like he dozes whenever he finds a spare minute—and those are few and far between. Unfortunately, insomnia and Shuuhei are not bosom buddies. He's already started hallucinating—yesterday he could have sworn he saw a gaggle of little blue men scaling the walls with suction cups attached to their fingers—and that's a bad sign.

So.

Shuuhei's desperate. If he doesn't sleep soon, he'll either collapse in the middle of something important or mistake somebody as a giant, tentacled Medusa monster and go on a self-defensive killing spree.

Yeah, no.

"I hope she's there," he mutters, winding his way through the expansive corridors of the West Wing, praying that he'd arrive incident-free at his destination.

Well, that and he prays Isane is awake at this hour, or the situation will turn unpleasant faster than a jackrabbit on stimulants.

She's a good-natured girl, Kotetsu Isane, but she _does_ have pet peeves, and being woken out of a sound sleep is one of them. He knows. He's done it before, and she was so distraught she chucked a glass paperweight at his head.

It hurt.

Granted, he could use a blow to the head now, since it'd knock him out and he wants to be knocked out, but he'd rather go about it in a less painful manner—and one that didn't run the risk of inflicting permanent brain damage.

He hangs a left and plods on, footsteps echoing down the empty hall. It's late, far past midnight, so the eerie ghost-town feel comes as no surprise, though it is a little unnerving in his sorry state.

Perhaps he ought to speed up a smidgen. To be safe.

Luckily, Isane's office isn't far, though he's breathing heavily when he gets there, and it's not from exertion.

Lord, he needs sleep. Very, very badly.

Closing his eyes, he takes a minute to compose himself and knocks.

"Come in." Her voice sounds startled. "The door's unlocked."

Shuuhei lets out a relieved sigh and eases the door open. "Yo," he says.

Isane, who had been bent over a book, blinks twice to readjust her vision. "_Shuuhei_?"

Her short, pixie hair is mussed around her face, and her large, luminous eyes are wide, and he can't help but think of how adorably _innocent_ she appears—even if he knows otherwise.

"I…uh…I have a favor to ask," he says slowly, to gauge her mood. Feeling himself begin to sway, he leans against a nearby filing cabinet for support. "I hate to impose, but…" He lifts a shoulder in a weak shrug.

Isane immediately jumps up, scattering the loose-leaf parchment on her desk, and pulls a chair over from the corner of the office for him. He notes with satisfaction that the chair's back and seat are padded, and probably quite comfortable.

"Sit," she orders briskly. "You look _terrible_."

"Thanks," he replies dryly, and sinks into the chair. "Oh…that's nice…" He reclines, allowing his body to relax, and all the tension seems to drain right out of him like water.

But that's usually what happens when he's with her. She has this…calming effect that's so natural, she doesn't have to do anything for it to work. Must be why she's such an excellent healer.

He said this to her once, and she had ducked her head and blushed, insisting that, "I have a lot to learn, Hisagi. I'm so far behind Unohana-taichou it's embarrassing."

"You're too damn modest, that's what you are," he had countered. "Take some credit, eh?"

And then she had given him the strangest look, her features hard, yet soft, and she murmured, "I think it's just you, Hisagi."

He'd been troubled by her response for a long while, much longer than he anticipated, at least. He wasn't sure what it meant—what she wanted it to mean. It was just him who considered her talented? (Obviously false, or she wouldn't be the fourth's lieutenant). It was just him who was so strongly affected by her? (He's still lingering on that possibility). 

Well, whatever it is, he understands the exchange meant _something_, and that same something drew him to her, now, as it had done a month ago.

The difference is, they aren't naked and tipsy this time.

Isane walks around her desk, hesitates, and hauls out her own chair to set beside his. Once she's situated, she peers at him intently, hands clasped in her lap. If he were to hazard a guess, he would say she's trying to restrain herself from touching him, because her fingers twitch.

He wants to smile, to reach forward and touch her first just to prove that it's okay, but he doesn't.

"Being a captain's taking its toll on you, huh?" She says, tone gentle, like a caress. "Look at those bags under your eyes…how long has it been since you slept last?"

"I can't remember," he admits, rueful, and she makes a disapproving noise.

"That isn't healthy." Her voice has a bite to it, and he cringes.

"I know, I know. But whenever I go to lie down, my mind races and I can't shut it _off_. I keep thinking of all the stuff I have to do." He slumps. "I'm in way over my head, Isane…drowning, almost. Trust me, I'd sleep for the next year if I could."

Her brow furrows, and, unclasping her hands, she drums her fingers on the armrests. "I see."

Shuuhei swallows. Not good. Not good at all. She's angry—her nostrils are flared.

"Er…Isane—" he begins, but she cuts him off.

"They expect too much of you," she growls harshly. "And you expect too much of yourself. God…sometimes, I wish this entire institution would just…just _burn_."

They stare at each other, both at a loss for words, she seeming positively thunderstruck at her gall; he telling himself the strong surge of exultation he feels is wrong and he should be ashamed.

And yet…

"Help me," he whispers, gazing deep into her eyes. While they aren't physically touching, the eye contact is intimate, intense, reminiscent of the wild, passionate night they spent together _that time_, drunk and brimming with pent-up lust. "Please, Isane."

The alcohol had been a catalyst. A trigger. A flipped switch.

"Oh, Shuuhei…"

She calls him by his given name now. She never used to.

"Of course I'll help you, idiot."

She stands quickly and goes to a large shelf with glass-paneled doors, and begins rummaging through her supplies in search of the correct ingredients for a brew to induce drowsiness.

His lips quirk. He didn't even need to prompt her. She _knew_.

---

Kotetsu Isane is in love with him.

She's always liked him, yes, for his charm and his rough edges and his determination, but as far as romantic interest went, she entertained a few idle fantasies, though that was it.

Sleeping with someone changes your perspective.

Especially if the tryst isn't planned, but rather just _happens_.

She had no intention of sleeping with Hisagi Shuuhei the night of Matsumoto's birthday party. None. Isane isn't the type of girl to jump into bed with the closest piece of ass—though Shuuhei's _is_ exceptional—whenever desire strikes. She thinks sex is a sacred thing not to be taken for granted, an act between two people who truly love and respect one another.

Isane's morals are made of steel, and she's quite anal about them.

But the party had been Matsumoto's, and Matsumoto drank like a sailor. Naturally, she expected her guests to partake liberally in her favorite recreational activity at _her _party, regardless of their scruples.

So. Isane got loaded, shed her inhibition, and launched herself at Shuuhei, gluing her mouth to his and keeping it there. She vaguely recalled slipping out of the party and leading him to her chambers, but one detail manifested with perfect clarity: by the time they crashed onto her bed, neither of them were clothed.

Afterward, he had gathered her in his arms and _held_ her, and she had trailed the pads of her fingers along his scars, memorizing their contours before kissing them, a trail of warm tears in the wake of her lips.

She doesn't know why she cried. Perhaps her heart was warning her. _Be prepared, because this won't last._ _It can't. Tomorrow, you'll go about your life, and he'll go about his. You're shinigami. Fairy tales don't exist for you. _

Isane is proud of her job. She finds satisfaction in ministering to the sick and injured, in studying medicine and concocting new remedies for illnesses. The chance to fight on occasion is a bonus. Mild tempered as she is, she has a feral side, and it likes to be let out for exercise.

She _is_ a shinigami.

However, she is also a woman, and she dreams. She dreams of a husband, of children. She dreams of a future that doesn't end with her being alone. She dreams of a fairy tale, _her_ fairy tale.

She dreams of Shuuhei, of his face and his scars and his spirit, his arms around her, the tears on his cheeks. Her tears. His tears.

Things did return to normal, except now she has the knowledge that she loves him.

He still stops by, and when he leaves it _aches_, like a part of her has been hollowed out. He comes to her for advice, for treatments, or just for company, and she laughs and jokes and throws glass paperweights at him when he disturbs her, and everything is _fine_.

Isane is not a liar, but she can lie. She can school her features to reflect an emotion she doesn't feel, can grin and bear it when all she wants to do is scream, can pretend like she isn't empty, like he hasn't taken something that belongs to her without realizing it.

But when he shows up at her office, looking fresh from the grave, her ruses crumble to ash.

She can't lie. She can't pretend.

She can't reign in her fury.

Most of it she directs at Tousen for abandoning him. Tousen, the man Shuuhei admired, served with a selflessness that amazed her. She may idolize Unohana, but Shuuhei's loyalty was on a different level than hers, and Tousen's betrayal had hit him hard.

The haunted shadows in his eyes are proof.

"_Help me. Please, Isane." _

If Tousen ever thinks to step foot here again, she'll kill him herself.

Her hands tremble as she roots through vials of herbs and other organic substances for the special tea leaves she uses to make sleep come, saying, "Gimme a minute. I'll whip you up some tea. It's potent stuff, so—"

Isane's breath catches in her throat.

While she was talking, he had come up and wrapped his arms about her waist, chin resting on her shoulder.

"I want to stay," he says, so quietly she has to strain to hear him. "Let me stay tonight. I know I'll sleep if I'm with you, so please…"

It's the second time he's said please.

She chews on her lip, blinking rapidly to banish the burning sensation in her eyes.

He shifts, allowing his forehead to take the place of his chin, and she feels moisture on her neck.

Isane fights her own tears a second longer, and then she gives up.

"All right," she whispers, reaching back to stroke his hair.

They are shinigami, and fairy tales do not exist for them.

But Isane is not a princess, and Shuuhei is not a prince.

They've been drifting in a garden of iron roses, cold, sharp, deadly beautiful, and they need each other now.

---

Head pillowed on her chest, Shuuhei sleeps, the pads of her fingers trailing along his scars.


End file.
